


Turn Me On (With Your Electric Feel)

by RazzAppleMagic



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Fluff and Smut, Hank Anderson Deserves Happiness, Hank Anderson and Connor Live Together, I've never written smut before but I guess I finally found my niche and its robot porn, M/M, NSFW, PWP, Robot Sex, Shameless Smut, hankcon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:14:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzAppleMagic/pseuds/RazzAppleMagic
Summary: They find solace in imperfection.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 21
Kudos: 142





	Turn Me On (With Your Electric Feel)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a hot second since I’ve posted on AO3 and I come back to apparently post some old man/robot porn. I started re-playing DBH this week and spiraled downward into the abyss that is Hankcon. I know that this fandom is slowly dying, but I’m pretty proud of this piece so I’m posting it to any of you shippers who are still out there. 
> 
> I’ve been struggling with writing NSFW content for a while now but I finally found my footing and apparently it’s _fucking robot porn_ so here ya go. My first ever pwp. TW for canon-typical mentions of suicidal thoughts. Canon compliant universe set after the peaceful/deviant Connor ending. Feeling inspired. Might fuck around and write a slowburn for this ship soon. Who knows.

* * *

_“All along the eastern shore_

_Put your circuits in the sea_

_This is what the world is for_

_Making electricity”_

_-MGMT “Electric Feel”_

They find solace in imperfections. 

The way that their bodies look so different from one another in the blue hue of the moonlight that floods in from their bedroom window. The scars that glisten on Hank’s calloused hands, the silver of his hair peppered with remnants of brown that had faded years ago. The bulk of his arms, the swell of his belly. Every wrinkle of his skin and blemish clouds Connor’s optical sensors as he tries with all that he can to take in all that Hank is, all that Hank has been, all that Hank could be. 

Connor can zero in on the little crescent shaped scar on Hank’s shoulder and determine the precise tool that was used to cause it (the heel of Prada shoe), but he can’t determine the color of the shoe or the look on Hank’s face when it happened or the person who did it to him. He doesn’t know if there was a lot of blood or only a little, he doesn’t know if it hurt or how long it took to heal or how many bandages Hank went through before it scabbed over. He can’t possibly see the story behind it, only the facts and hypothesis that come with being a one-of-a-kind crime-solving Android. 

He reaches out to touch the scar, mechanical fingers gliding over the little patch of skin. He’s draped over Hank’s body, head nestled comfortably in his chest, sensors indicating that Hank’s heart rate is normal, relaxed. When Hank breathes Connor rises and falls with the thrum of his chest; a pleasant reminder that Hank is alive. 

“What caused this scar?” Connor asks, fingers tracing circles around the silver shape. 

“Hm?” Hank lifts his head to see what Connor is talking about and rumbles with laughter when he realizes. “Oh fuck, that one? Yeah that’d be my bitch of an ex-wife.” 

Connor feels an unpleasant satisfaction. He’d determined there was an 86% chance that the scar was caused by Hank’s ex wife. He doesn’t like to be right about Hank’s pain, doesn’t like to make assumptions about Hank’s marriage. 

“Did it hurt?” Connor muses, pressing down on the scar a little harder. Hank’s skin is warm and rough. 

“No, but it bled like a motherfucker. Bitch hit me with her shoe because I was taking too long to get ready.” 

Another laugh that feels like thunder shakes through him and he coughs a little on the landing. Connor is displeased, as he usually is, to hear about the way Hank’s wife had treated him when they were married. He doesn’t dwell on the thought, but squeezes Hank’s skin gently. 

Somewhere in his memory is a saved phrase about broken paths leading you where you’re meant to be. If there’s a higher power, which Connor knows to be highly improbable, he doubts that an Android was ever included in the mapped out plans of Hank Anderson’s life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The odds of the two of them falling in love were so unlikely that Connor had never considered it, never ran the numbers or chose his speech to prevent it. But it had happened. An unlikely pair with a complicated past, Android resentment on one end and a program for success at all costs on the other. Deviancy that might not have ever happened, a single question that could have changed their lives forever had Connor not known the answer. 

_“My son, what’s his name?”_

The question wasn’t just about Cole. The doppelganger could have known that with a simple search of Hank’s file. It was about what Cole meant to him, it was about the revolver with only one bullet that sat on his kitchen floor in a puddle of whiskey, the bags under his eyes and the anti-android stickers on his computer. The question was about empathy and understanding and the knowledge that Cole’s death hadn’t just been the end of Cole’s life — it had been the end of Hank’s. The question had been about understanding that Hank had died a little bit each day after that android had failed to complete the emergency surgery. The question had been about Hank wishing that it had been him on that operating table instead. 

Connor had known the answer and all of the pieces that had come with it. Connor’s eyes had been open in his deviancy. It felt like a lifetime ago (and maybe in some ways it was), that they’d had that moment in Cyberlife Tower. 

It seems like forever since they’d embraced in the snow in front of that Chicken Feed truck. One thousand questions playing on loop in Connor’s head and no programming to keep them at bay. 

And now he’s here. Tracing the topography of Hank’s bare chest with his perfectly engineered fingers, incapable of even imagining a life where things could have gone differently. 

* * *

They find solace in imperfections. 

The numbers that never added up, the emergency exit in Connor’s software, the flash of red on his LED that shows up to remind him that his very ability to feel like himself is a software instability - a flaw in his system. An imperfection.

Connor is on his hands and knees, sheets bunched together in his fists as Hank slips another finger inside. He barely recognizes the voice that leaves his mouth, still not used to his body doing things without his permission. 

“You’re so perfect Connor,” Hank whispers as his fingers curl and release, sending static waves of electric pleasure through Connor’s core. “So perfect.” 

Connor had undergone the upgrade to experience sexual pleasure one year into their relationship together. He’d waited for Hank to bring it up, knowing that sexual interaction was a critical piece of intimacy for most humans, but even after a year of living together and kissing and hand holding, Hank never said a word about needing it. The upgrade was Connor’s idea. When he brought home booklets and holograms and asked Hank for his preferences, Hank had only turned red and stressed to Connor that this was his decision. 

_“Don’t do anything that doesn’t feel right for you. This is a big decision and I want to make sure that you’re doing this for you and not as some fucked up way of pleasin’ me.”_

So Connor had made the modification choices himself. He’d selected the parts and the programs based on what he was interested in. He tried out different simulations, weighing his options for maximum enjoyment. He made choices that he would still be happy with even if things between him and Hank didn’t work out (as much as he didn’t like to think about that). And though he’d made these choices for himself, he hadn’t expected the experience to be so…

_“Perfect, you’re perfect Connor.”_

_“Perfect.”_

_“Let’s stay like this. Just a little while longer.”_

Hank’s free hand snakes around Connor’s torso to stroke his enhancement, calloused fingers dragging across slick skin, sending currents through Connor that pool in his belly. Connor lets out another soft moan, pushing himself backwards and forcing Hank’s fingers deeper. 

“Fuck,” Hank breathes, tightening his grip on Connor’s cock. “You ready, baby?”

Connor opens his mouth to speak but Hank curls his fingers again, pressing into that sweet spot that makes Connor’s entire vision flood with red. He groans and fists the bedding harder. Behind him, he hears Hank laugh, low and sexy. 

“Mmm,” Hank teases, “tryin’ to say something?” 

Hank stops moving, fingers pressed tight against a sensitive spot. Connor tries to speak but the arousal program overrides his speech and a strangled cry comes out instead. 

He’s a live wire, hot and exposed. He’s completely vulnerable, defenseless and unhinged. He can’t see, he can’t speak, and he needs Hank to _fucking move._

He rocks himself forward with a loud moan and the red clears from his vision. He takes a millisecond to allow his systems to buffer and speaks before Hank can tease him any longer.

“Please,” he begs, cock dripping into Hank’s hand. “Hank.” 

“Please, what?” Hank rubs the tip of his fingers against the rim of Connor’s entrance and shakes with laughter at the way Connor squirms and buckles beneath him. 

“Hank,” Connor moans, and his voice shakes. “I need you.” 

Hank pulls his fingers out completely and Connor gasps at the sensation. Hank releases Connor’s cock and grabs him by the hips, pulling him closer. 

“Need me to what?” Hank asks, grabbing hold of his own hardness and stroking it. 

“Hank,” Connor pleads. He presses his forehead to the mattress and bites into the sheets. It doesn’t do anything other than distract him from the ache and want that’s surging through his programming. His usual protocol is overridden and his current objective is filthy and illuminated in the lower corner of his vision. 

“You gotta tell me what you want, baby, or how am I supposed to know?” Hank teases his dick against Connor’s opening. 

Connor’s sensors go crazy. Hank loves to watch him squirm, likes to hear him say things that he’d normally never say. Connor knows what Hank wants from him.

“What do you want, Connor?” Hank asks again. He presses in a little bit and pulls out. He hums in satisfaction when Connor cries out his name in response. 

“I want you to f-fuck me,” Connor stutters, the words are foreign and uncomfortable. His original programming didn’t allow for profanity and in his deviancy he still prefers not to use it out of habit. 

But it seems to do the trick for Hank. 

He grips Connor’s thighs and pushes in, letting a low groan rumble through his body at the sensation. 

Connor moans again, dripping blue-tinted fluid into the sheets as Hank begins to move. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and Connor doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how good it feels to connect to someone the way he’s connected to Hank. Hank is inside him, big and rough and _Hank_ , and Connor wants to fucking cry. 

There’s something about the way he unravels, the way his programming screams and splits with every thrust of Hank’s hips, every grizzly grunt that escapes Hank’s lips that has Connor feeling like he’s almost—

_Human_. 

“Hank,” Connor cries and for a minute he forgets about his objective and the timer counting down his climax. He forgets about the moving mechanical parts inside of him and the artificial sound to his voice. It’s just him, it’s just Connor and Hank and no one else anywhere in the world. 

He’s real.

This is his body.

His voice.

His Hank. 

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect Connor,” Hank’s voice is shaking and he’s thrusting harder. It doesn’t take a scan for Connor to know that this means he’s at the edge of climax. 

They find solace in imperfections. 

Hank calls Connor perfect, not because of his specially engineered eyes or the smooth touch of his skin, but because he’s Connor. Because he has a permanent burn on his skin from the night he escaped Jericho, because his left knee sometimes stiffens up when he runs for too long. He calls Connor perfect because Connor is beautifully imperfect, an oversight in software engineering, a miscalculation, a demo model, a deviant. He calls Connor perfect because Connor is _his_. 

“Fuck,” Hank groans, gripping Connor’s hips for support. “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

“Hank,” Connor repeats, hoping that it’s enough to encourage his partner to finish.

“Connor,” Hank replies, and his breath hitches. He whines, hips moving faster, noises escape his lips that make Connor’s cock twitch and ache with need. “Connor, Connor, _fuck_.”

Connor balances his weight on one arm and uses the other to reach beneath him, between his legs and jerk himself off. His own hand doesn’t feel anywhere near as nice as Hank’s, but the mere action of Connor touching himself seems to push Hank to his limit. 

With a loud grunt and and one final, deep thrust, Hank cums inside of him. 

Connor’s vision clouds with red notifications alerting him of a foreign substance, but the wet, hot feeling of Hank inside him is too good to worry about it. He shakes with the feeling of Hank’s aftershocks and increases the sensitivity of his own cock so that he’s cumming too, seconds later, all over his hand. 

They find solace in imperfections. 

They find peace in each other’s arms, slick with both of their fluids and exhausted beyond measure. Their relationship is not normal, it’s not natural, and it’s not perfect. 

But in the comfort of their bed with the sirens of Detroit echoing through the distance, their relationship is all they need. When Hank falls asleep, Connor watches him breathe. 

He resists the urge to scan him, trying instead to take in the tiny details of Hank Anderson with his own eyes.

They find solace in imperfections. 

Knowing that when they die they will not go to the same place. Knowing that Android independence and individuality is new and scary. Knowing that one day, one of them will have to continue this journey alone. 

They find solace in imperfections. 

Connor closes his eyes and enters stasis. He does not know how long he has with Hank. He does not know if what he’s feeling for Hank is real or if it’s a glitch in his programming. An oversight. A miscalculation. An imperfection. 

It doesn’t matter. 

They find solace in imperfection because flaws are what make them who they are. They find solace in imperfection because without it, there would be no them. There would be no deviancy. There would be no moonlit nights or tear-stained pillows or little crescent-shaped scars that tell stories of a life lived by the person who gave Connor everything. 

They find solace in imperfection because that is the only thing that makes sense. 

They find solace in imperfection because imperfection is what makes the nights spent tangled in Hank’s sheets feel like magic, it’s what makes shared secrets and awkward confessions between them irreplaceable. 

They find solace in imperfection because imperfection is what makes everything that they are, everything that they have been and everything that they could be—

_Perfect._

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
